Grave Apparel (29 page)

“I started reading your little
newspaper
last spring after
Vic
started complaining about it. It seemed some reporter he
knew
there
was
always
getting herself
involved
in all kinds of trouble, flirting with
danger,
egging
on killers, just asking for
it.”
Na dine
was
enjoying
her
story.
“Someone he
knew
from his past, amazingly
enough.”

“Really?”
Lacey’s
eyebrow
raised
involuntarily
and
she
glared at
Vic.
“I
wouldn’t
cross this
woman
if I were you, Sean
Victor
Donovan.
She sounds
like
trouble to
me.”

“Mother,
now
isn’t
a good
time,”
Vic
said.

“Oh, she is trouble! This
very
striking
fashion
reporter,
ac cording to
Vic,
pretty and sassy and smart
too,”
Nadine contin
ued.
“I
liked
her.
And
I
thought,
how
on
earth
can
a
smart
fashion
reporter get in trouble writing about hairdos and hem lines?
Well,
good Lord! I found out!
Didn’t
we all!”

“Concert
should
be
starting
again
soon,”
Vic
said,
but
no
body
moved.
Lacey
raised her
eyebrow.
Danny
tried his best not to laugh.

“Vic
was
so
aggravated
with this
woman,”
Nadine contin ued, “I just
knew
he must
have
some sort of serious interest in
her.
This mysterious
‘Lacey
Smithsonian’ person.
Wants
to pro tect people he cares about, you see.
Takes
after his
father
that
way.
Couple of
overgrown
Boy
Scouts, the
two
of them.
Aren’t
they
adorable?”

Danny
took
his
wife’s
arm
and
began
to
lead
her
away,
back
toward
the theatre. “Nadine,
it’s
time we got back to our
seats.”
Nadine
broke
away
from
her
husband’s
protective
arm
and
stuck to
Lacey’s
side.

“So, of course, I started reading your
paper,
Lacey,
just to keep up on the players in this little drama, or else
I’d
never
know
what goes on with my
own
family.
Then you started pop ping up on DeadFed. Good
heavens,
the stories
they
have
about you, dear! But what I
wanted
to say is this. I
know
you
don’t
have
a car right
now.
That little
misadventure
with the car theft and the
driveby
shooting and all? Such a shame.
Your
poor lit tle Z. So
I’d
be more than
happy
to
drive
you on one of your lit
tle
adventures.
We’d
have
fun,
Lacey.
It
would
be
a hoot.”
Lacey
almost spit out her Cabernet on her blouse. She
covered
it with a cough.
“And
we can
take
the Caddy!” Nadine contin
ued,
reaching
her
point
at
last.
“You
can
wear
your
vintage
clothes, I will
drive
my vintage Cadillac, and we will solve crimes in high style. What do you
say,
Lacey?”

Nadine’s
everyday
car,
for trips to the grocery store or her
bridge
club,
was
a
large,
comparatively
sedate,
scarlet
Mercedes
Benz. But for
excursions
to the country club or when she
was
out just “catting
around,”
as she called it, Nadine
drove
her
large
unmistakable Cadillac, a 1957 Eldorado Biarritz
convert
ible. A bright pink Eldorado Biarritz, a sleek monument to the stylish American
excess
of the midtwentieth
century,
complete with
fins
out to here. Only 1800 were made, Nadine told
Lacey
later,
and none as pretty as her “Miss
Flamingo.”

Father
and son both
looked
pained. “No need to encourage
her,
Lacey.
She’ll find
some
excuse
to
take
the Caddy out for a road trip
anyway,”
Danny
said.

Nadine
looked
so pleased with her idea,
Lacey
almost
didn’t
have
the heart to dash her hopes. “But Nadine, there is no mys
tery.
There is no case. Not this
time.”

“That’s
what you say
now,
Lacey.
From what I read,
that’s
what you
always
say before
you’re
up to your
youknowwhat
in
alligators.
According to
Vic,
anyway.
Oh look,
showtime!”

The house lights were flashing, signaling the end of inter mission. The concert
was
about to resume.
Lacey
reached for
Vic’s
hand and led him back up the stairs in a rush behind his parents.

“If you
ever
want
to get me alone tonight,
darling,”
Lacey
whispered in his
ear,
“get me out of going on a road trip with your adorable mother!”

“Where’s
the Sunday paper?”
Lacey
asked
Vic
sleepily.
Brunch the
next
morning seemed to come all too soon, after a late night with
Vic’s
parents,
first
at the
Folger
and then later
over
drinks at the bar at the
Willard
Hotel, all the while
denying
that she
was
champing at the bit to “slap on the old
Wonder
Woman
bracelets,”
as Nadine called
having
an
adventure,
and tackle the
investigation
into
Cassandra
Wentworth’s
attack.
Nadine
seemed to
have
the oddest image of
her,
Lacey
thought.
Wher
ever
did
she
get
the
idea
that
I
was
a
freelance
righter
of
wrongs
in
heels
and
a
vintage
suit?
Oh
yeah.
DeadFed.
And
she
may
have
had
a
little
help
from
Vic
too.

Lacey
just
wanted
a nice unpretentious Sunday meal after Mass, where
they
arrived
late, so
they
drove
down
Route One to El Puerto for their great Mexican food.
Vic
handed her a huge pile of
newspapers
and took a tortilla chip, dunking it in the salsa.

“Not this thing. I
want
The
Eye
,
not
The
Post.
”

“You
really
want
to see it?”
Vic
held the paper back, his
face
a practiced blank.

“What? Oh no. Let me
see.”
She grabbed it. On the front page
was
the Cassandra
Wentworth
story.
“Oh my God. Did it really
deserve
a box on the front page?”

EYE
STREET
OBSERVER
WRITER
ASSAULTED

Observer
Fashion
Reporter
First
on
the
Scene

She
gazed
up
at
Vic
and
back
down
at
the
paper.
The
new
cops reporter
Kelly
Kavanaugh
had
milked
the story of Cassan dra
Wentworth’s
attack for all it
was
worth.

“I
never
told
her
any
of
this
stuff.
We
barely
said
hello.

Where did she get all this? And half of
it’s
wrong!”

“I
take
it she got the information from an industrious and probably rather young
cop,”
Vic
said. “Feminine wiles and all that. Or maybe
she’s
a real reporter after
all.”

“Feminine wiles!
Kavanaugh’s
not that
wily.
Or feminine. And look,
she’s
described the
boy
in the
shepherd’s
robe, and
even
though I said
he’s
a witness, she also quoted the cop say ing
he’s
a suspect. Either
way,
she could be putting the
boy
in
jeopardy.
Just in case the jerk who conked Cassandra in
the
head
didn’t
remember the kid, she reminds him and
gives
him a description. This is irresponsible journalism!”

“Sounds
like
Kavanaugh
wants
a Pulitzer
Prize.”

“She wants a kick in the head, if you ask
me.”
Lacey threw the paper down. “I can’t believe Mac let her get away
with
this.
You
better be right about the robe,
Vic.
I hope he took
it
off
and
it’s
back in the costume closet in the church
basement
somewhere.”

“Now
you
know
how
cops feel when
they
read the
papers.”
He took another chip.
“At
least
you’re
not named till the third
paragraph.”

“Let me
see.”
Lacey
sipped her tea and
picked
up the paper
again.
The
story
jumped
to
an
inside
page.
She
was
still
steam
ing when her attention
was
caught by a
tiny
news
brief at the bottom of the page.

The Holy Family is a little more destitute than usual this year at the small stone church, Shiloh Mount Zion, in the Shaw neighborhood of D.C. The scene at the stable in the church’s
Nativity
had
been
made
cozier
by
generous
parishioners, who had made new robes for the plaster figures. But not long after the traditional scene was put on
display,
persons
unknown
took
several
of
the
new
robes,
Metropolitan
police
repor
t.
Mary,
Joseph,
two
of
the